


My Love is Vengeance

by LadyNyxRavus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Lydia is a BAMF, tumblr caused this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:38:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNyxRavus/pseuds/LadyNyxRavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, she should have realized much sooner. In practice, he's entirely too clever for her to just ignore.</p>
<p>And honestly? She's not sure she would've wanted to ignore him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pyschosis

She first sees him outside the counsellor’s office. She doesn’t recognize him which – in retrospect – should’ve been her first clue. But she was wearing her least favourite gloves because she hadn’t exactly _planned_ on needing any until it got colder and she could colour-coordinate with them and none of her current wardrobe matched _at all_ and…

Well, she had more on her mind at the time. Which is why, when she saw him and didn’t recognize him immediately, she took an educated guess and decided he must be a new student. That would explain his presence at the counsellor’s; students that transferred in the middle of the term would need to meet regularly until they settled into their classes.

He’s cute – big blue eyes – and what he lacks in obvious muscle like Jackson he makes up for in height. Even with him slouching she has to keep a straight back to remain at a mostly even level (not that she was trying to).

When he asks after her presence – _“What’s your brand of psychosis?”_ – and smiles, she widens her eyes and puts enough prim and proper into her voice with the exact amount of haughty power she requires to shut most people up and says, “I have an acute phobia of people prying into my personal life. You?”

His flirting grin turns sharp and she has to resist the urge to smile when he says, “Compulsively drawn to cute but narcissistic girls.”

Because _oh_ he’s _clever_. Maybe not to her level – she solves college-level math problems for fun sometimes when Jackson’s being boorish – but clever enough to use a vocabulary to match hers even when she’s still being at least partly “unintelligent-bitch” with him. He watches her get up when she’s called in and although she catches his eyes flit to her – admittedly _amazing_  - legs his attention seems focussed on smirking a little and mouthing her name before he looks away and grins in satisfaction.

If she’s slightly less caustic than she’d meant to be during her session, then his smile certainly had nothing to do with it.


	2. Sympathy Break

The second time she sees him he’s a spot of calm in the storm that is her mind.

The whole class is laughing at her (peripherally, she is aware that Stiles and Jackson aren’t) but he’s front and centre and there isn’t pity in his gaze – just sympathy. His lips are curled reluctantly but his eyes – blue and bright and round – are flitting across her face and he fiddles with his pen and looks away.

She can see the tense line of his shoulders and when he chances catching her eyes directly the sympathy is a question – _does she want someone to say something?_ __

She _wants_ to rip his eyes out. She does not need someone to stick up for her. She is Lydia Martin; she has the highest GPA in the _county_ and she does not need some blue-eyed, tall, dark, and handsome _unknown_ defending her.

So she returns to her seat and focusses instead on how she can hear Stiles muttering to Scott in the corner and there’s the unmistakable sound of a phone taking a picture. She’s staring at the board and pretending she doesn’t hear her classmates muttering to themselves about the nonsense she’s written.

Because really – and she’s doing everything in her power to forget the _stares_ and the man and the _ash in her face_ in her _hair_ she can _smell it_ – it doesn’t say much for her school that it requires an app to be able to read giant block-capitals written backwards.

They’ve all seen _Harry Potter_ ; this should not be as difficult as they make it out to be. Even if she doesn’t want help – she doesn’t, she has no idea why she wrote that and it _scares_ her – she _would_ like to at least be questioned. Doesn’t _anyone_ care? She was attacked and ran around the woods _naked_ for two days and the only help she’s received beyond basic first aid has been sessions with her _school counsellor_?

How does no one see the profoundly wrong reaction to all of this?

“With what?”

“I’m sorry?” she turns from her locker and is met with blue-eyes again. He’s staring at her and leaning adjacent with one hand on the strap of his bag and his head ducked down. He almost looks like he’s apologizing for his height with his slouch and she fixes him with an unimpressed look that has him straightening with a sort of amused smile.

“You wrote ‘please help me’ on the board. With what?”

“With chalk.”

His eyes are laughing even if his mouth is twisted into something annoyed. “Have lunch with me,” he says instead.

“No,” she replies brightly and smiles. He stops leaning against the locker and stares at her with a bemused quirk to his lips.

“You don’t eat?”

“Not with _you_ ,” it isn’t like her to be so blatantly antagonistic to people she barely knows. She usually just ignores them but he’s standing in her way and his shoulders are slouched a little again and his head ducked to be not quite-so-freakishly tall.

“Alright,” he shrugs and she’s startled enough at the compliance that she blinks several times more than she needs to. He waves a little and ducks around the corner before she can even come up with a response.

When the _French­-_ canadian (she cannot even begin to explain how this woman annoys her) asks about the incident, she tilts her head and says, “I’m fine.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive,” she returns.

“It doesn’t bother you at all?”

“I can handle a few stares,” she replies frostily. Staring is something she’s used to. Being stared at for having a psychotic break in the middle of class is new but staring in general? She’s used to that. Encourages it even. She doesn’t think of blue eyes and sympathy and she uses polite but short answers for the rest of her required session. “I don’t need any help.”

She eats lunch alone and doesn’t at all regret turning blue-eyes down.


	3. Butterfly Flames

Rorschach ink-blots? _Really_? The likelihood of a psychologist using those – in a school setting at least – is something less than 24%. She _knows_ that because she wanted to be prepared for these sessions and just –

Really?

What had been easy to stare at on her computer screen and come up with responses well within the norm is somehow…different. She’s staring at the cards and saying butterfly just to be obnoxious (and most of the inkblots are designed to look like that anyway, the ones without colours at least and Ms. Morrell isn’t using anything but basic black) but then one comes up and…

Fangs. Are those fangs? Fire and flesh aren’t meant to mingle and there’s bubbling skin and blood and red and _black_ and she wants to scream because she can almost _feel_ the flames licking at her radiating out from where that psycho had _bitten_ her and…

“Danaus plexippus,” she bites out.

“Which is the scientific name for…”

She purses her lips and demurs, “Butterfly.”

Ms. Morrell turns the card around with a soft sigh and says, “Huh…I would have said ‘wolf.’”

“Are we done playing guess the shape?” she asks with only a fraction of the impatience she actually feels. The burning has gone almost completely but she still feels like she’s stretched too tight. Like her skin is the wrong shape and she wants nothing more than to be out of this room. If Ms. Morrell thinks that she’s having trouble sharing her thought processes and that this stupid test is going to help them communicate somehow, then she’s clearly not been paying attention.

Lydia isn’t having _trouble_ communicating; she doesn’t _want_ to communicate.

“You’re free to go,” the counsellor agrees with an air of resignation. “But you have an appointment at the same time next week.”

“Fine.”

Blue-eyes is outside the waiting area when she gets out and his black t-shirt is just a tad too tight (not that she’s complaining). He smiles at her and she wants to scowl but there’s something about that smile that eases the heat in her veins and she pauses just long enough that he takes it as an invitation to join her.

“Rough session?” His arm brushes against hers as they walk down the empty hallway. Most of the students have classes still and she got to use her final free-period to talk.

“It was fine,” she says and doesn’t scowl at the way his eyebrows jump in a politely incredulous expression.

“I’m sure,” he agrees placidly and tucks his hands in his pockets.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“That you’re fine,” he says. His eyes are dancing and he leans a little closer than she would normally allow.

“Then why are you saying fine like I have a disease?” she turns to prop an arm on her hip and glower at him. He remains unmoving under the force of her gaze but his shoulders come up and his head drops a little and he’s hunched over to a normal height.

It makes her irrationally angry to see him like that. He’s not so tall that his height is actually a hindrance and he’s not a gangly thing like some people with his sort of length. There’s sleek muscle under that slightly too-tight shirt and she can see it. Anyone with _eyes_ can see it and so she snaps, “Stop slouching!” before she even realizes that she’s saying anything.

For a moment he freezes and his head tilts fractionally to one side before he straightens and his easy confidence that led to his flirtation when they first met slips back into place. He smiles at her and something flutters in her chest. “Is that why you won’t go out with me? Have something against poor posture?”

“If it makes you stop asking, yes,” she replies. The bell rings and the sound of classrooms coming to life and students beginning to leave fills the air. He looks up at the noise and she doesn’t jump when he slips his hand into hers and lifts it to his mouth.

“I’ll see you again,” he says like a promise – murmuring it into her knuckles – before he slips away in the pressing crowd of bodies.

She doesn’t think about him at all in the following rush of Stiles and Allison rushing her around the school and to Scott’s house – even thoughhe _isn’t there_ – and by the time Jackson is yelling at her and _kissing_ her and just…everything. Well, by then she just wants to go _home_.


	4. Prada

Allison is the _worst_ friend.

Lydia thought that maybe Allison was clever enough to catch on. She caught on at bowling! She’s the one who convinced her to go to the dance with Stiles. Stiles who recognizes her brilliance with the appropriate awe and reverence but lacks any _real_ interest in her (and when he eventually realizes _that_ , she was there to say I-knew-it).

So she thought that Allison would _certainly_ notice what was going on between Lydia and Jackson was _not_ what was going on between Allison and Scott. But she doesn’t and she can’t take one more second of hearing the sincerity of her friend’s emotions when her heart is racing and her eyes are forced wide to stop the involuntary watery prelude to tears.

She’s out of the car and at her door before she even realizes it. Prada jumps and skitters to the door eagerly and Lydia doesn’t fall to her knees – she doesn’t – just crouches down and gathers the little dog to her chest. Prada is warm and soft and happy to see her. Part of that is being left alone all day but she’s sure part of that is because Lydia is home.

“Hi Prada,” she murmurs and her voice feels jittery – her mind is scattered. “Do you need to go outside?”

The answering wiggle has her toeing off her shoes and padding along to the back door. She makes sure to kiss and cuddle the little dog – crooning loving nonsense to the only thing in her life that’s actually _caring_ about her lately – before setting him down outside. Prada doesn’t like the wide stones around the pool and runs off out the back gate to the edge of the forested area behind the house.

She’s not _worried._ She’s just rattled from her so-called friends freaking out and the attempted break-in and Prada is all of _6 pounds_ how long can he possibly take? It’s cold and her jacket – while fabulous – is not cut out for keeping her warm. She shivers and that ( _and **only** that_ ) is why her voice quavers when she calls out for her dog.

But the dark is not her favourite thing and she’s cold and _oh my **god**!_

“Lose something?” Blue-eyes asks – cradling the dog in his arms and picking his way cautiously across the stones to offer him back. He keeps his eyes on her face as he does so and it’s equal parts unnerving and relieving; here’s someone who might actually answer her if she questions them because this is someone who will pay _attention_.

Prada is unusually docile in his arms (and this is where she _really_ should have clued in, especially considering the latter portion of the conversation). Lydia takes her dog back and sets him off to the side, urging him into the house with a gentle shove. Prada is none too eager to be out in the cold himself so he goes as he’s bid with just a brief tail wag.

She turns to blue-eyes and he’s standing closer than she remembers. “So…should I call the police or is there a non-rapist explanation for being in my yard in the middle of the night?” Her head tilts expectantly.

He shrugs a little and glances to the gate. “I heard him barking and I – I live in the house back there.” His chin dips a little in a minute gesture and she follows it as her mind tries to conjure when exactly they had neighbours living back behind them. “Is it okay or should I start running?”

“Well thanks for bringing him back,” she says. His voice was just a touch sarcastic and it was enough that she’s willing to be particularly vacant in return.

But he’s her brand of smart and his brow furrows faintly even as his mouth thins knowingly. “Everything okay?”

“Okay, meaning what?” If he thinks he’s being subtle, he’s wrong. Her eyes narrow and her focus sharpens. She doesn’t even know his _name_ and here he is asking her if she’s _okay_.

“Okay, meaning: are you alright?” He looks just a little defensive which – more than anything else – makes her actually respond.

“Okay, meaning the other day in class?” Never let it be said that Lydia Martin skirts around an issue. His shrug says ‘you-said-it-not-me’ and her tone is snappy and bitter without her consent. “I’m not crazy. I may be the girl who sleepwalks naked and writes backwards on the chalkboard but at least I’m not one of those desperate, vicodin popping, wrist-cutters at school.”

She’s just about ready to dismiss him from her life. He’s just like everyone else who thinks they know her and she had been so honestly _relieved_ to see him that it…

Not hurts because that’s a weakness she can’t admit to having but still…it doesn’t sit well. Her chest is cold and dark and her thoughts are rambling and disjointed and she’s so out of sorts that she doesn’t want to see the look on his face right now. She can’t see the look on his face. She doesn’t think she’d be able to handle seeing the confirmation that he’s just like all the _rest_.

 


	5. Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gives her a flower. She pretends she just doesn't remember the house that isn't behind hers.

It’s a surprise, but a pleasing one, when his lips curl a little and his voice is amused and warm instead.

“Oh, is _that_ what the other girls are like?” he asks. She’s staring and he’s stepping closer and her back presses against the trellis-covered support behind her. His face shifts then – honestly confused and just a touch hurt. “Why’d you do that?”

“Do what?” she keeps her eyes resolutely on his face and not on his hands. She’s only slightly afraid that the crawling feeling up her spine will result in her seeing claws instead of hands.  His eyes flicker and meet hers and there’s something knowing there. He’s still too close for comfort and he’s aware of it too – the jerk – because he doesn’t move but he straightens his back as his head dips lower.

“You stepped back.”

 _“You_ stepped forward.”

“Maybe I wanted to kiss you.” His eyes are flickering and trying to hold hers. She sort of wishes it were less endearing – his trying not to stare at her lips.

Her tone is slightly regretful – she _likes_ having this attention right now. She’s been a social pariah for almost a week and it’s going to ruin her college applications if she can’t get letters of recommendation as to her astounding leadership qualities out of all her teachers. “Maybe I don’t want you to,” she says and tilts her head – waiting to see his reaction.

He shrugs and squints a little like he wanted to wink but thought better of it. The sentiment of the aborted gesture turns his digging playful. “Does that mean…maybe I could?”

“If you want me to punch you in the throat.” She could but she doesn’t think she would want to.

He laughs like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. “Could I hold your hand?” His lips are pulled back and mischief is sparking in his eyes.

“What am I - nine years old?” she quips and executes a half-turn with the perfect balance of spite and nonchalance. But there’s a heat behind her back and she pauses – turning to watch him reach out and pluck at the trellis she’d just been leaning against.

The flower he holds out is blue-purple and tiny. Round little petals with a pretty green  stem. “Could I give you a…flower” he asks with a ridiculously charming smile for such a dorky gesture. She glances at vines briefly and wonders where flower came from - she doesn’t remember there being any but…her eyes return to his and she’s reaching out to take the little thing with a smile torn from her despite the ridiculousness.

“Promise to keep it?” He withdraws his offering before she can accept it. One hand is stuffed into his pocket and his voice is placating when he hurries to explain himself at just one sharp look. “If I ask you tomorrow if you have it and you say no…I’m going to be _really_ hurt.”

She considers him for the briefest of moments. She doesn’t know his name and that’s _something_. Lydia should seriously consider that at least. She should consider it and she should consider why he’s at her house in the middle of the night and how she never noticed a boy quite so attractive as him living in her very own neighbourhood.

She should think of all of this. She should and she _knows_ it.

But he’s looking at her with his blue eyes and there’s amusement and hope and a hint of mischief hiding secrets and she’s never been one to back down from a challenge like _that_.

“Well if I don’t,” she says as she takes the flower, “I’ll lie.” A flick that hit him neatly on the nose – a bare whisper of petal on skin – and she spins with all the drama she can muster.

She doesn’t look back. In her room, she tucks the little blossom into a tidy corner of her desk and – for good measure – puts one of her bracelets around it like a barrier in case it tries to fall off the desk. It’s not as likely to roll as one of her earrings but she’s not sure she wants to take that chance.

If the sentiment makes something in the back of her mind twinge well –

She just ignores that in favour of blue-eyes and his teasing smirk.


End file.
